Eat well. Drink more. Work less.
I am a kitchen slattern.
I stick my finger in the vinaigrette to check the taste, add more vinegar, then stick the same finger in again. Sometimes I use a lettuce leaf, but not usually. You know you do it, too.
I make cakes from scratch but almost never use more than one bowl. That business about blending wet and dry ingredients separately is bullshit. One cake, one bowl. Why wash two? I have my suspicions about the role of Big Dish Soap in this.
I believe you can eat well with a lot less effort than you think, and if you drink more than is generally considered advisable while doing it, that's strictly between you and Mssrs Moet and Chandon.
I believe that the extra pain, suffering and time it takes to do any household task well is wasted once you get to well enough.
I believe you might as well be drunk if you're going to vacuum, and you should be if you're going to clean the toilet.
If you're interested, I've got opinions on just about everything else.
I am a kitchen slattern, and if you hang around here long enough you might be, too.
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Kitchen Slattern (c) copyright 2011 Wendie Winslow. The Slattern Speaks (c) copyright 2012 Wendie Winslow. All rights reserved. No reproduction in any medium without prior written consent of the author is permitted.
Because I said so, that's why.
Adios Señor Pig
Jul 2
Posted by WSW
The end of bacon? Thankfully, another cuisine craze fades into obscurity.
Hmmm, should we eat it or rush it to the vet for emergency dental surgery? Duh.
I was pleased, no thrilled actually, when I recently read a comment from some chef in one publication or another — my reading time frequently overlaps with cocktail hour, so my recollections tend to get a bit hazy — saying something to the effect of “I’m sick of pig.” Now given the context, I think we can assume she was referring to swine-flesh meat products rather than the dog-wheelchair thief, the Real Housewives or that ass hat who keeps ripping the Red Sox stickers off the bumper of my car. Long story. Anyways . . . oh here, I found it.
Spotted Pig Owner Sick of Pig
God bless chef April Bloomfield is all I can say. Eh, who do I think I’m kidding? I have a great deal more to say on the subject, and when I’m done I believe I’ll don a red dress and stomp on the rapidly putrifying bones of bacon mania, because I don’t know about you, but if I have to excavate another goddamned hunk of thick cut bacon from between my crowns, I may do something I regret. And I’m not talking about making an uninsured dental visit.
And FYI, kale is no better served glistening with bacon grease than straight up, or God forbid, in a salad. It’s still kale, and it still tastes like something you’d pull from the depths of a 14 year-old boy’s gym locker. But if you must put bacon in the greens, why does it have to be inch-thick slabs with the flavor and consistency of salted linoleum squares? This stuff cannot possibly be digested by normal human beings and once impacted between the teeth, the chunks fester, causing the unsuspecting diner to awaken in the middle of the night with throbbing gums, cotton mouth, a screaming colon and the unmistakable bloat that follows a meal consisting of three courses of processed pork followed by tenderloin profiteroles and fat back shooters.
I can’t stand it anymore.
If you live near, or frequent, a settlement of any size you have no doubt encountered one of these pig-mad flesh pits that serves such taste sensations as maple-lardon ice cream, pork belly speckled greens, and fat back chili. I have even seen an offering for bacon chocolate martinis. Yeah, that’s right bacon in your vodka. With chocolate. What’s next, folks? A beard and pasties on The Pieta? Steven Seagal for pope? Birkenstocks as club wear? You see where this is going. Gastric armageddon followed by complete worldwide social collapse, and I for one am glad there is hope of averting a total implosion of all we hold dear.
I’m sure you’re a swell guy, but please get that thing away from my food.
So to all you aspiring restauranteurs, here’s a news flash. It’s over. Bacon does not improve anything but eggs. It belongs on club sandwiches and BLTs in thin, crispy slices. It doesn’t make ice cream better; hot fudge does, GrapeNuts do and so do little chunks of peppermint stick candy. How come no one serves peppermint stick ice cream anymore, huh? It was so refreshing, like brushing your teeth and eating dessert all at once, and I miss it. What I will not miss, however, is sitting down to an overpriced plate of pork ten ways accompanied by the obsequious smirk that I know is hiding behind that rat’s nest of a beard.
Is it too much to hope that waiters might eventually start shaving again?
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Posted in Commentary
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Tags: April Bloomfield, Bacon, Cook, Ice cream, Kitchen Slattern, Pork, Pork rind, Real Housewives, Slattern, Steven Seagal, Vodka